reformed sad girl
If you asked me a few weeks ago if I love living here, I would be lying if I said yes. I wasn’t having fun anymore and I didn’t know if I wanted to stay in Portugal. I use to associate this place with so much love and joy but now it reminds me of how much I suffered this past year. You may think I am exaggerating when I say ‘suffered’… but I really did, I got my butt handed to me. If Iose one more thing, I will probably explode. There are so many things I wish I would have done differently, so many interactions I wish I could redo.. But I can’t.
I recently returned from a trip to the old country. I was a hot mess the days leading up to my departure. I was in London (I needed to see this exhibition on all things cute.) the days before leaving, I was returning to Lisbon for a day, then catching a flight to Philly then San Diego. I gave myself one whole day to prepare for a cross atlantic flight, I don’t know what i was thinking. I was stressing about traveling and debating whether or not I wanted to continue living in Lisbon. This trip was going to help me decide.
I thought I wouldn’t want to leave San Diego again because what is the point? I spent my days locked up in my apartment too unmotivated to do anything other than cry and wish that guy was having a worse time than me, feeling like he forgot about me and he was having the time of his life, living it up while I was a gargoyle. I would wish something super fucked up, realize what I said then right after say, ‘god, knows my heart.’ I would mostly only wish minor inconveniences, a list I will expand on in another post. I spent all winter looking out a rainy window like Joey from Friends.
I was away for three weeks, more than enough time to decide whether I wanted to stay or go. I can usually fake it and pretend I was in an alright mood but I couldn’t this time. I was a sad panda, I spent half of my trip eyes swollen from crying playing on my GameBoy. I didn’t make an effort to see any of my friends other than the ones who lovingly forced hang outs. Seeing the kids would cheer me up but I wasn't acting like my cute, goofy self and they could tell. It felt like every other conversation I had the first half was someone telling me to move back. I don’t blame them, if I were them and I saw me in the state I was in, I would tell me to move back too.
Something clicked the second half of the trip. Maybe it was staying in my old bedroom, reading old journals, mushrooms, or remembering California is not its own country and is in the United States of America. I was packed and ready to go four days before my return flight.
I needed to “prove” (get buy in) to everyone (my concerned parents) that I wasn’t going to be sad anymore (for their peace of mind) and I knew what I was going to do next (goals). I sat them down in the living room and presented a five slide powerpoint. You see, my dad is a man of business, and I came to the table with a business plan!! I knew he was going to respect the effort and appreciate the slides. I felt like I was on Shark Tank asking the investors to support my real life Barbie adventures.
Now, you may be thinking, “dlo, aren’t you 33 years old? Why are you telling your parents?”, and yes, I am and I tell them what I am going to do because: 1. They like to feel included 2. Someone has to pay to ship my stuff back if need be.
Gotta play the game if the game is going to get played.
I need to change the narrative on my experience in Portugal before I move on. I don’t want to think of Lisbon and associate it with sadness and heartbreak. This was once a place I described as a “personal love letter” I am determined to have that story back.
